2. The Tests

With the birth out of the way, the doctors had given Maria a few days rest before they would press ahead with the endoscopy. Left in the maternity unit, she was finding little support from the midwives. The maternity unit worked much like a production line, with a quick turn-around of patients. As most of the midwives were unaware of the other problems Maria was having, they expected her to be back on her feet and out the door in a day or two. The fact she was still there a few days later they saw as her playing it up and treated her quite badly, getting impatient at the numerous requests for help she made. A large, middle-aged, Ghanaian nurse went as far as telling her off, saying, that because Maria was Brazilian, she should be a strong woman and should have gone home by now.

Over the next few days as we awaited the endoscopy I had taken to becoming a medical expert and, when not at the hospital, researched Maria’s symptoms on the Internet. I had not liked what I was finding, and when Maria asked me about it, had been reluctant to share all, instead side stepping many of her questions. I had not wanted to believe what I was finding and certainly did not want to worry Maria any further.

Finally the day of the endoscopy came. I had to stay in the maternity unit with James, our newborn, while Maria was taken for the examination. She had been very nervous about it, not so much about the outcome, but about the procedure itself. The thought of having a thick tube forced down her throat was not one she relished. I remember sitting there on the side of the bed, holding James as the porter pushed her in a wheelchair down the six bed maternity room, and out into the corridor. As they turned into the corridor, Maria looked back with foreboding etched across her face and my heart ached for her. I pulled James into me and my eyes teared up. The whole procedure took two hours, though sitting, waiting for her return seemed like an eon. Finally the porter brought her back, drowsy but well.

The day after the tests were completed, the nurses began to  understand that Maria had not just been shirking. There seemed to be a new respect for her, and, while no one said anything, I wondered if they knew something we had yet to learn. A couple of days after, Maria was discharged and we took James home.

Despite being obviously drained of energy, Maria did her best to be with James and spent as much time with him as she was able, while I took care of everything else. We were blessed that James was a great baby and cried little.

Almost three weeks later we got a telephone call asking us to come meet with the doctor to discuss the test results.

I remember the day of the appointment. It was a warm day. The bright Spring sun beamed through the large window, illuminating the empty desk before us. The trees outside, now in full leaf, wafted gently in the breeze. The sound of bright bird song fluttered through the air. Inside the room a cold, eerie emptiness prevailed. An old black and white photograph hung on one wall and a poster depicting some aspect of anatomy hung opposite. Along with the desk there was, a small trolley containing an assortment of instruments and medical aids, and a weighing scale. Besides the chairs we sat on there was one other chair, behind the desk. It lay empty, silently waiting in anticipation with Maria and I for the doctor to arrive.

The door opened and in came the woman doctor. She was in her 40s, dark shoulder length hair, her white coat contrasting with the dark clothes beneath. She held a thick file of medical papers in her hands. Sitting down she opened the file on the desk before her. She greeted us cordially. Then she spoke bluntly: “You know why you’re here; I will get right to it. Unfortunately, Maria, the results of the endoscopy shows that you have stomach cancer.”

There was silence in the room. Tears welled up in my eyes as I looked at Maria and took her hand. Her eyes were also moist, a look of shock on her face. Over the days since the endoscopy, I had finally shared with Maria what I had found on the Internet relating to her symptoms. We had talked about it and worried together. However, neither of us really thought it would be true. Now here in that small room we faced reality. Time seemed to stand still, everything suspended. I struggled to understand my emotions, my thoughts race everywhere. I could only imagine what must have been going through Maria’s mind.

The doctor broke the silence. Maria would have to have a CT scan to ascertain the extent of the cancer. Then they would schedule her for surgery. I cannot remember what else was said that day. It seemed to be a very short meeting and very business like, almost unreal. In just a few minutes our lives seemed to have been turned upside down. Before the meeting we had still been celebrating the birth of our new son, and now death was knocking at the door in a very real way.

Most of us tend to go through life, especially when we are younger, with a certainty that there will be a tomorrow. Day to day there may be changes, but we go to bed each night with an expectation that life, as we generally know it, will be the same when we wake up the following morning. Facing the reality that that may no longer be the case leaves you numb. Your mind goes through a million thoughts at once and yet seems empty. We all know death lies ahead somewhere but when it comes knocking unexpectedly at the door it is always a shock.

Before we realized it the meeting with the doctor was over. We had just received the worst news of our lives and then we were shown the door and left to ourselves. There was no support offered, no help on how to process the news. Just a "you may be dying, we'll call you soon to arrange more test." I remember finding out weeks later that the doctor was supposed to have provided us with details of support and counseling services, and felt immense anger that she had overlooked doing so, and had left us to fend for ourselves in processing it all.

As we left the hospital building and walked back to the car, neither of us knew what to say. The silence was almost unbearable, but neither of us had the means to express our thoughts or share our feelings.